


Hmmmm

by orphan_account



Category: Hmmm - Fandom
Genre: hmmm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:47:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22928182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Hmmmm
Relationships: OC/OC





	Hmmmm

Yeah, so. He made a deal, right? He did. He went down into that treasury and he saw things, okay? He saw things, and he knew deep in the pit of his cold, blackened heart that he was meant to have them. So yeah, he made a deal with the Odd Fellows, because he knew there would be immediate buyers for that very particular item, and he'd have so much extra money left over he likely could have kept a few of those sapphires for himself, to sell or not, he'll never know at this point since he never got his hands on them.

But he didn't know about Tommy's boy. He really didn't, and that... that complicated things in ways that Alfie, unfortunately, couldn't predict. Would he have done it, if he'd known they'd use Tommy's own flesh and blood as blackmail to keep him from outpacing them? Out loud and if cornered, he'd say yes, because it's fucking business and that's it, but deep down... he quite simply doesn't know. He likes to think he's a hardened enough man that he'd do just about anything to put himself and his business forward, but at the same time... he likes Tommy Shelby. He'd figured, hey, it's only money, he'd see through it and they could just keep on trekking, as they were, but the boy made things needlessly complicated, and it almost cost Alfie his life.

The drive back to Camden Town was a quiet one. His riding partner Mendel got himself shot in the fucking head, leaving Alfie to scuttle back home with his proverbial tail tucked between his legs. His heart hasn't risen to that swift drumbeat in his chest in a long time, but Tommy is good for that, isn't he? So he goes back home. Spends many nights thinking about Tommy Shelby, and that entire Russian deal, about their night in Warwickshire and what it all means to Alfie Solomons.

When word comes to London that all the major heads of the Peaky Blinders minus Tommy are behind bars, that doesn't even change much on Alfie's end. Sabini is all but ground into the dirt, and Alfie, quite frankly, isn't going to push it, because he's learned by now, yeah, that Tommy Shelby is not to be trifled with, even when he's down on his luck. He put Alfie in his place, and he earned a shit ton of respect from him for his trouble, so when things go quiet, Alfie doesn't push, but he doesn't run away either. They just keep on going, as they were.

The telegram doesn't surprise him when it comes in. Ollie hands it over with that look on his face like he needs to take a particularly unpleasant shit, but Alfie just shoos him off and reads it over and over and over again. So, Tommy's coming here. Well. Alfie's not going anywhere, and he's not going to return it with anything, either, just to keep Tommy on his guard a little because fuck him, that ground tackle in that deserted warehouse fucking hurt, and Tommy damn well knew it would.

-

Ollie escorts Tommy down into the basement, and he very obviously pays very close attention to Tommy's every move this time, but Alfie comes out of his office, leaning against his cane and staring at Tommy with his lips thinned.

"See you haven't learned a damn thing, have you, Thomas," he says with a vague gesture with his other hand, indicating Tommy's significant aloneness. "Come on, then."

Good afternoon, Alfie," he says, nodding toward Ollie as he steps around him and walks into the other man's office.

"Yeah, it is."

Alfie also nods to Ollie with half a blink, and Ollie nods back with a frown, gives one last look toward Tommy, then makes his leave. Usually, he goes and hovers outside the office but this time he heads back toward the entrance. Alfie turns and heads inside himself, then settles back in his chair with some effort. There are even more lesions on his face than the last time they spoke, but then again it's been quite a few months, now, hasn't it.

"So, what can I.... do for you, eh?"

"Now that my business with the Russians is over," Tommy begins. "I need to know if you're still in it with the Odd Fellows."

Alfie sits up and leans back in his chair - it's old and lovely, and conforms very nicely to his back - and exhales loudly as he drops his chin to his shoulder.

"Well, I don't have a Fabergé egg or a fuck-ton of sapphires in my possession, now do I," Alfie returns flatly, throwing up a hand to show this lack of precious jewels. "So, no. Not sure why you had to come all the way here to ask me that ridiculous question."

"Just passing through," Tommy replies, echoing what the man had said when he had shown up in his drawing room and they both know it's a lie, just like then. "Prefer to do my business in person."

"Right," Alfie says, drawing out the word, and his gaze flicks down toward Tommy's hands, then back up again, quick as a flash of lightning.

"So we should talk about the big fucking elephant in the room, then, shouldn't we, Tommy. Eh? Like, I don't know, your entire fucking family being clinked up. Kinda puts a smudge on business dealings, don't it."

"They'll be out soon enough," Tommy says, reaching--slowly--into his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter. "I've already made a deal."

Alfie watches him reach into his pocket but he doesn’t expect a gun. Tommy is far from stupid, and with how relaxed he appears on the outside, it’s pretty obvious he didn’t come here to stir trouble for the London outfits. Not today, anyway.

“‘Course you have,” Alfie mumbles, and it’s with complete conviction and no amount of sarcasm. Tommy gets things done, no matter the odds it seems.

“He dead, then? The one that made you need glasses.”

“Same man took my boy,” Tommy explains evenly, taking a drag from his cigarette and exhaling smoke into the room. “I wasn’t the one who cut him but it got done.”

"Well, good," Alfie says with a nod, because really, he didn't fucking know they'd go and steal Tommy's kid, and anyone who would steal a kid for personal gain should probably be cut in some terrible fashion. Alfie has done some awful, terrible things in his life, it's true. And he might talk big about there not being a line, but he really does try his hardest to keep kids out of it, at least the direct line of fire. Sometimes it's inevitable.

"Was that priest, wasn't it. Could see it in his eyes. Evil… evil behind those eyes. Shoulda known, really, what they were gonna do, but..." Alfie takes a deep breath and holds it, staring at Tommy without blinking, because this is him admitting he made a mistake here, and he doesn't want Tommy to miss it. "But yeah. Glad it's done and over with. Whether you or whoever else who did it, one less shit-hole priest in the world, right?"

“He deserved worse,” Tommy agrees, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. “But we don’t always get what we deserve, eh? Sometimes we have to make do.”

Alfie nods, just barely, scrubbing his hand through his beard as he watches Tommy roll the cigarette. Watches him blink, slowly. Watches his throat work as he speaks.

"Yeah, yeah we do," he says slowly after a long moment. He squints at Tommy a moment later, but his curiosity wins out in the end. So sue him, that night was really good and he's been thinking about it a lot lately.

"So. You got yourself all figured out then, eh? Tommy? Don't see a ring."

"You know, you called me 'Sweetie', Alfie," he says, words long and slow and just a little irritated if you know him. He shifts in his chair, restless and more annoyed the more he thinks about it. He gestures in the direction of Alfie with the hand holding the cigarette.

"I had a gun in your fucking face, yeah? We were discussing business and still, you called me Sweetie."

"Yeah, I did," Alfie says, as if he's agreeing on a thing like 'the sky is blue'.

"And I'll do it again, too. Out of all the things we've done, Tommy, of all the things, you're caught up on that, eh? You spent nights staring up at your pretty little ceiling in Warwickshire wondering why Alfie called you 'sweetie'. That's fanciful, innit?"

"You told me before you kept business and pleasure separate. There were witnesses, Alfie," Tommy replies evenly. "Lucky for us, Michael isn't much of a talker," he taps ash from his cigarette on an empty glass on Alfie's desk. "I don't care if it was only once. People will talk if they hear a rumor, especially one about us. Neither of us needs more enemies."

"One witness, and he's your lad, so, if you can't keep him quiet then that's on you, innit?" Alfie retorts easily, still leaned back in his office chair. His back is tight today with the coming rain, but he doesn't show it.

"And since when did calling someone 'sweetie' become fucking them out in the open for all to witness? Eh? Woulda called you that whether we fucked or we didn't, so don't go getting your knickers in a twist over endearments, alright. You don't want me to call you that anymore? Fine, I'll come up with something else, then, but I rather liked that one, and I, for one, think you did as well. Since you were busy thinking about it enough to tell me about it now and all."

Tommy stares at Alfie again as the man talks and he doesn't know what he wants, does he? He sighs again and drops his shoulders. It makes him look tired. He raises his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose and drops it again.

"I took the ring off," he admits.

Well, he doesn't need to share that information because he already has. It's written all over Tommy's face. He may think he's a closed book but he's not. His broody stares into nothingness, his excessive drinking, and his even more excessive smoking habits are all pretty good signs that he's having some troubles with the grieving process, or was.

"Mmhn," Alfie hums, because yes, that much is rather obvious. There's silence between them for a few moments, then the squeak of the chair as he sits forward again.

"For what it's worth... I'm sorry, Tommy," he says, voice low and sincere. "I am. ...You have your boy, though. She's still with you, in him."

Tommy's quiet for a moment before he says, sincerely, "Thank you, Alfie."

Tommy puts his cigarette out in the glass, "I've some time before I go back to Warwickshire."

"Mn," Alfie hums again as an acknowledgment, quiet but strong in conviction.

And then... out comes the truth of the matter, not that he didn't know already. If Tommy is going to show up here, with no ring on, after their talk about said ring... it's pretty obvious to Alfie why he's here now.

"Right. To talk business. To talk business... not here," Alfie says the words slowly, staring at Tommy with a knowing look.

"Some business is better discussed elsewhere," Tommy agrees and he gives the man a steady look. "Shall I get a room somewhere?"

"It is, you're right about that," Alfie hums, stroking his beard and looking off into the distance for a moment before he takes a deep breath and grabs a pen. He hands Tommy what he's written: an address.

"Five o'clock."

Tommy glances down at the paper. "Have a nice afternoon, Alfie," he says as he stands up.

Alfie stands up as well, then spits in his hand and offers it to Tommy. They've done this enough times now, even if Ollie is looking in he won't think anything of it beyond business.

Tommy spits in his hand and takes Alfie's without hesitation. He gives him a firm handshake and lets go, turning for the door to head out. 

They part ways and Alfie has his own work to do in the distillery, anyway. Ollie comes up to him after and asks about this and that with their runners, and eventually asks about Tommy, too. He's a good lad, but sometimes has to be put in his place about things. He's learning, though, and eventually he'll take Alfie's place if something happens to him, if that day comes.

A bit after, he goes home to clean himself up some. The psoriasis is actually somewhat in check at this precise point in time, even if it's progressed in the last months. It's less itchy today, but he spends some time with hot water, soaking in the tub and scrubbing at them gently with a washcloth to keep them from cracking and bleeding. He trims his beard to shape it right. He washes his hair. Puts on nicer clothes, just so that Tommy can take them off him again later, go figure.

When he opens the door, he immediately notes the glasses with his eyes, but steps aside to let the man in so any wandering eyes don't land on them too long since Tommy seems so worried about it.

"'Ello, come on in. Don't you look nice, Tommy. See my spectacle man did you some good. See into the future yet?"

Tommy steps in as soon as Alfie gives him the space. He raises a hand to his face and pulls off the glasses to tuck back in his coat pocket.

"I think I have," Tommy replies with a barely there twist of his lips into a smile. "I see a good night ahead of us."

Alfie's digs are relatively simple compared to the often over-flourishing glam of the various wonders of London. It's obvious that it's lived in in some capacity, but it lacks the same atmosphere that his office does, making it rather obvious that he spends much less time here than he does in town.

That does pull a little smile and chuckle out of Alfie, even if he glances down to see a flash of metal when Tommy puts away his glasses. Tommy would be stupid to not carry a weapon with him around here, so it doesn't really phase him any.

"Did you now? Good, good. Seems reliable enough, yeah? So, you come full already or you need a bite before the main course."

Tommy shrugs off his coat and hangs it and his hat on a hook near the door.

"Don't suppose you have any whiskey," Tommy says, clearing his throat.

"I have bread," Alfie returns with an unblinking, flat stare and a vague gesture toward the kitchen area because that should be answer enough for Tommy. He may very well have some whiskey in the house, but Tommy doesn't need to know that.

Tommy stares back for a moment and turns toward the kitchen. 

"Bread it is," he replies, rummaging in his pocket. "Mind if I smoke?"

"I do, actually, but there's a balcony out to the right if you need your fix," Alfie says and he doesn't sound sorry about it as he shuffles over to the kitchen to go and fetch said bread. He's pretty damn good at making bread, too, regardless of how often 'bread' means rum in his line of work, an actual loaf of bread is its own form of art, in his opinion. If he wants his shop to look legitimate as a bakery, he's going to have some delicious bread to go with it.

"You ever had my bread, Thomas? Course you haven't, this is mine, I made it myself in my bakery. You want white."

Tommy tucks the cigarette case back in his pocket. 

"Whatever you recommend," he says.

"Wash your hands first, eh? Over there," Alfie nods over to the basin nearby.

"Jewish thing," he explains with another vague wave of his hand. He moves into the pantry area and shuffles around to find the loaf he wants, wrapped in wax paper. He deposits that onto the counter, then goes over to wash his own hands in a perfunctory fashion that is a solid indicator that he's done this routine many, many times.

"Anything else?" Tommy asks, spreading his hands to show they're clean. 

Alfie Solomons is a unique creature, there's no denying that. Jewish law is strict in some aspects and the one big one surrounds breaking of bread. He has a plethora of idiosyncrasies, as most men do, but he's pleased that Tommy is humoring him without complaint. It warms the cockles of his heart, truly, although the phrase is most certainly not kosher.

"Naw, won't make you recite the words or any of that," Alfie says, but he's got the barest of smiles on his face as he says it. He's much, much more relaxed in the confines of his own home, that is very clear. He cuts a piece of bread off the loaf and offers it to Tommy, then cuts his own.

He swallows and says, "You're full of surprises, Alfie."

To Alfie, doing the little things helps make up for the big things that he doesn't follow to proper law. These little things he can do without complaint, and he does, genuinely, care about Jewish tradition, but he's also got some basic needs and France also tarnished some of his more orthodox rituals and tainted him.

Alfie nods in response to the thanks, waiting patiently for Tommy to take the first bite before he follows suit, watching for his response to the taste and texture of it. It's one of his quiet, private prides, his bread.

There's a quiet moment where Alfie simply stares at Tommy after that soft proclamation, stopping his chewing and everything. He swallows as well, then clears his throat and says, "So how is it."

"It's good," Tommy says, raising it towards him in an almost toast before taking another bite and chewing it slowly, savoring it. 

"I know a man that runs a bakery in Camden Town," he says, lips twitching with amusement. "If you were looking for work."

Alfie's eyes actually flicker and light up at that, showing that he's genuinely surprised by the lighter banter and definitely not in a negative way. His lips twist as he glances away and shifts his weight to his opposite hip, then when he looks back up at Tommy he's actually trying to keep his expression neutral and not smile.

"Oh, well, put in a good word for me, then, would you. 'Cause I hear he's got standards, right. Makes him hard to work with. Bit of a hardass."

"I will, though I don't think he's as much of a hardass as he believes," Tommy's lips twitch again, trying and definitely failing to hide the amusement.

He shakes his head, taking another bite out of the bread before asking, "Is this bread from your bakery?"

It’s hard to make jokes in their world. With them all constantly on edge with words that could be used against them at any given moment, you learn quickly to keep your guard up at all times. This, though, this is all personal. No business here.

“Don’t tell him that,” Alfie says seriously, but yet in an almost sing-song fashion that makes it impossible to tell if he is in fact serious or not.

Alfie takes another bite of his piece, letting his eyes close for a few seconds to enjoy it.

“Yeah, it is. I made it, I said. And I meant it, too. Kneaded that loaf with my own two hands, these hands, yeah. Recipe’s mine, too. Well. Tweaked it from my mum. Letting her live on with something physical, you know. She’d like that, I think.”

"I do know," Tommy says, gaze shifting briefly out the window and back again. 

"Yeah, you do, and it's a nice place you've got there, that school. Heard about it in the papers," Alfie agrees, finishing off his own bread and there are some crumbs in his beard but, well, can't stay clean all the time, can you?

"So," he starts, drawing out the word as he stares at Tommy with an unblinking stare that gives away nothing, "Now that you've got some food in your belly, how about we talk about what this is, exactly."

“She’d have liked it,” Tommy echoes and that’s as important as Alfie’s mother and the bread.

He meets Alfie’s gaze evenly. “Alright,” he says.

"Right," Alfie nods, then gestures for Tommy to go into the main room, which is simple but tasteful. There are only a couple chairs and three tables in what constitutes the 'living' area. Alfie settles into one of the chairs, his cane leaning against the end table nearest to it.

"So... we're not quite to a pattern, 'cause that's three, and I'd like it to be at least three eventually, maybe more, but that's up to you, innit? Because I, for one, don't like sharing. What about you?"

Tommy follows Alfie into the main area and sits in he chair that the other man hadn’t taken. He leans back and crosses his leg over the other, fingers drumming once on the arm of it as he listens to Alfie.

“So is this the part where I tell you I fucked the Russian again?” Tommy asks. “Or should we talk about the prostitutes I’ve had since?”

"Good time to mention it, yeh," Alfie responds easily, letting his head fall to one side as he considers the man next to him. He does give him an appraising look, as if searching into Tommy's own memories to see what all went on.

He frowns, though, and says, "Hope you didn't pick up something from that Russian whack job. Could see the crazy in her eyes, Tommy, like some big sack of cats all rustling around in her head. Didn't blink enough, eyes too wide, I could tell. This is a serious question, though, Tommy. I got enough going on with my own crap, don't need anything else, so, if you have something to share, now's the time to share it. No judgments, you did what you had to do."

“I haven’t caught anything,” Tommy replies with a small huff. “It would have shown by now. If I had, I wouldn’t have come.”

"And it would have been a damn crying shame, wouldn't it," Alfie returns, not phased in the slightest by whatever offense Tommy feels about him asking in the first place. If it wasn't the fucking Russians, he wouldn't have asked, but like hell is he getting some venereal disease from those pieces of shit.

"I don't share, Thomas," he says again slowly. "If that's a dealbreaker, so be it, eh? But I want you to know that I mean that. I don't share. Men or women."

Tommy stares at Alfie for a moment, considering the man and his deal, before nodding, “Alright, no sharing. You have my word.”

Alfie nods in return. He trusts that Tommy knows how serious he is about that, and what he would do if he were to find out that Tommy broke that deal. Business, sure, there's wiggle room. This, though, Tommy only gets that one free pass.

"Good, mine as well."

There. Easy, right?

"Glad we got that outta the way, eh? You staying 'til morning or no?"

"I planned to stay," Tommy replies, fixing his gaze on Alfie. "I've no other outlets now."

Yeah, well, if Tommy wants to fuck a whole slew of prostitutes he can do that on his own time and money and then, consequently, have no Alfie. If he feels like that's a fair trade then that's on him. Alfie would move on alright at this point, as interesting as Tommy Shelby is.

"What, you were planning on getting a good dicking from me, then going off to put your dick in some whore back at your place? Jesus, Tommy," Alfie sighs, but he doesn't sound particularly judgy about it either, somehow, it's more just exasperation. "Come on, then."

"Not all in one night," Tommy shakes his head. 

"I was too sore for whores for a couple of days," Tommy twitches his lips into a smile. 

"Oh, well good, you spread it out a little bit, yeah? Too much Tommy Shelby to go around, clearly," Alfie huffs, but it's in good humor on his part, at least. He grunts as he shifts to stand, using his cane to get up but he leaves it there. He doesn't have to walk far.

"Yeah, yeah I bet you were. Opened up for me so nice, didn't ya. I'll keep you too sore for your fancy leather chair in the wilderness too, if that's what it takes."

Tommy stands up with Alfie. "You're welcome to try," he replies and he's great at keeping his face straight so it's impossible to tell if that had been a joke.

It won't be hard for him to remain exclusive to Tommy. He's never, ever had someone like Tommy. Someone so... alluring. So genuinely pretty. Not even women can really compare to Tommy's prettiness.

"I will," Alfie says with complete confidence, as is the Jewish way. "Try, that is. And I don't plan on failing, either. I wanna kiss you, too, by the way. Should have mentioned that before, suppose."

Tommy raises his chin slightly at the addendum, considering for a moment and his gaze stays trained on the man as he moves closer. 

"You do, eh?" Tommy asks, raising a hand to catch Alfie's chin and hold him in place so he can lean in to press their lips together. 

That movement makes Alfie go stock still, his eyes widening in open, clear surprise but he doesn’t move a muscle to stop the other man. He’s motionless even when Tommy grabs his chin and leans in, and doesn’t even immediately respond once their lips press together.

But then, like a light flicking on he’s all movement, one hand snapping up to grab the back of Tommy’s head to properly deepen it. His lips part and that’s the gateway through the tangle of beard and into softer parts full of lips and tongue. He growls into Tommy’s mouth, surging with an eager lust as he swipes his tongue roughly over those pretty lips he’s wanted to conquer for quite some time now.

He really didn't expect Tommy to be as relaxed about it as he is. Didn't expect him to be so curious and just jump right into it, but he's not complaining now that he's up to speed. His fingernails dig a bit into Tommy's scalp, gripping the longer hair on the top of his head and tugging on it a bit.

"Nnh, fuckin' hell," he grunts out when he breaks the kiss only long enough to grab some air, then he's right back at it, nipping at Tommy's lips and pushing his tongue right into the other's mouth.

Tommy barely takes a moment before he's moving his own tongue against Alfie's. A groan escapes him and he slides one arm around to the Alfie's upper back, while the fingers of his right hand dig into his side.

It's as romantic as it needs to be, as far as Alfie is concerned. There's no real need to beat around the bush, they both know why Tommy is here, and they're both very much on board with it.

Alfie growls again when their tongues collide, and his grip tightens enough that he tugs Tommy's head back away from the kiss a little abruptly, his teeth catching on Tommy's bottom lip before he lets that go, too. His other hand comes up to stroke over Tommy's exposed throat, his thumb catching his pulse. He hums, low and pleased.

"Yeah, yeah I like that quite a bit. Can you feel it? Right here," he practically purrs the words, pushing his hips into Tommy's front, "How much I want to bend you over that chair, right now, and fuck you 'til your legs give out."

Tommy's pretty blue eyes shift away from him to consider the chair and then he brings them back again. There's a hint of amusement in them if Alfie knows what to look for. "Is it sturdy enough?"

"Fuck no, it'll fall the fuck apart the moment both our weights hit it," Alfie says, and damn Tommy's hair is soft. Well-groomed, too. Beautiful. He tugs it harder, leaning in to breathe in Tommy's natural musk and oh, oh yeah, he likes all of that.

"Like hell are we doing it against that chair, I'm not falling down there, mate, I don't have a fucking death wish. We're going to my bed, right, and it's over there, down that hall, so. Trot on," he says with a smile and lets go of Tommy's hair just so he can pat his cheek before shooing him off in that direction.  
  
"I have a chair that would be sturdy enough," Tommy tells him as idle conversation. "More of a lounge, if you thought your back could handle it."

"We'll figure that little problem out when we get to it, won't we," Alfie responds easily, mostly to deflect whether or not he thinks he can handle it. He doesn't like to think of himself as incapable of anything, but age is becoming a factor and he does, admittedly, have some physical ailments that are causing more and more problems for him as the years pass.

"Nice to hear you're already thinking of all the ways for me to fuck you in that lovely little house of yours, though. Warms my heart. It does, truly. How often did you think of me in your bed, eh? Before you finally showed up here, I wanna know."

Tommy isn't quite sure what positions work the best for the man. Chairs and lounges are good for riding though and he thinks that had gone pretty well the last time. He also doesn't know the extent of Alfie's back problems because the man hides it as much as he can which he doesn't blame him for at all.

"Didn't keep count, Alfie," Tommy replies with an errant gesture of his hand. Usually, there's a cigarette in it but he'll behave in the man's house.

"That many, is it? Don't I feel special," Alfie hums, pleased as he makes his way to his room. It's not a long walk since the house isn't the size of a fucking mansion, and it's intimate and dark with only a fireplace to light the room and the windows on the far wall, but the sun is setting so the light won't last long.

"Nobody says my name like you," he announces after a moment, glancing back over his shoulder with an arched brow before he shuffles to the fireplace. He stokes it and adds another big log, then stands back up with a grunt. "S'different, innit? Like it belongs there on your tongue or something."

~*~

"You left quite the impression," Tommy admits. He shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it over the top of the trunk, leaving him in his vest and holster.

"Rolls off the tongue nice and easy," he says and tilts his head. "Alfie."

"I've heard I do that on occasion," Alfie says and shrugs out of his own vest which leaves him with just the one heavier shirt and suspenders, tilting his head to watch Tommy stroke over his own hip. Yeah, he remembers the easy way he could grip him there, like they were handholds specifically for him and everything.

He honestly doesn't even look twice at the gun. Tommy Shelby isn't going to shoot him, he knows it deep in his bones. If anything Tommy is simply a good guard dog for him in the off-chance of some coincidental robbery.

"Like it even better when you're yellin' it into a pillow, mmhmm," he hums with his lips pressed together in thought as he reaches out and strokes over that same spot Tommy just touched on his hip. He's gentle as he does it. "That what you want, Tommy? From me? More rough?"

Tommy glances down at the man's hand and up again, "Tonight? Yes."

Well, ninety-eight percent of the people that live on this block and in this general area are Jewish, and pretty much all of them follow him in some way so yes, it'd be pretty fucking stupid to try and get into this house of all the houses to try.

"Mmn? Yeah?" He asks, looking down as well, and then back up to meet Tommy's gaze. They're exactly the same height, so it's no hardship to be close. "What about other nights, mm? I can do rough, yeah, but not every night. And that's got nothing to do with my back, before you ask, and everything to do with what I should be doing. For you. Between us. Sometimes I like it slow. Fuckin' gentle if you wanna call it that. Alright?"

~*~

Tommy raises a hand to his lips, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the bottom one and dropping it again. 

"I'm not ready for gentle, Alfie," he mutters finally. 

Alfie watches that movement very, very carefully, his gaze sharp and intense, just as it always is whenever Alfie Solomons gives his complete attention to something. He drops his head and looks up, to catch Tommy's wandering look for a few solid seconds, searching his face.

And then, lightning fast, he cuffs Tommy right in the temple with an open hand, then points to the bed and says, "Go. On the bed, yeah?"

He climbs onto the bed as ordered.

______

sex :)  
\- alfies rough and they like it   
\- tommy half moans half honest to god whimpers alfies name  
\- alfies back is killing him 

"I’ll bring you a cloth,” Tommy says and he gets himself cleaned up first before he does just that, offering it to Alfie when he gets to the side of the bed. He bends down to find his discarded underwear and pants.

Alfie takes the offered cloth but when Tommy leans over Alfie grabs the back of his neck and tugs him over and down and kisses him, open mouthed and wet. He doesn’t hold him there long though, breaking it only a couple seconds later so he can use said cloth to wipe off his dick and groin.

Tommy puts his hand out to brace himself against toppling into Alfie, conveniently that happens to be against the other man’s thigh. He returns the kiss, keeping it light and when it breaks he runs his tongue over his lips briefly just because it had been wet.

Tommy clears his throat and bends back over to pull on his underwear.

“I need a smoke,” he tells Alfie.

Alfie hums his assent, having fully expected that eventuality. Tommy and his silly cigarettes, because Tommy loves his vices, doesn’t he. So he lets Tommy go, more concerned with cleaning himself up and re-stoking the fire.

When Tommy returns, whenever that is, Alfie is settled on the edge of the bed, once more clothed but in just underwear and a long sleeved shirt.

Alfie watches him move, chewing on his bottom lip with his hands on his knees. There's a newspaper next to him, and his spectacles are back around his neck and a lantern not far off for some extra light, but the sun is setting so it'll be fairly dark in here soon enough. He wants to get his fill of seeing Tommy Shelby's body while it's on proper display.

"Should cook you dinner and shove it down your throat," he mutters after a moment, eyeing him some more. He's so damn skinny. Lean, but there's obviously some muscle there, too. Still, you can't survive off nicotine and whiskey, even if Tommy seems to be giving it his best shot anyway.

Tommy puts one arm on the mantle above the fireplace and leans into it, watching the flames for a moment before glancing over his shoulder at Alfie.

"I ate your bread," he replies.

"Yeah, bread. That's just filler, you stubborn git, not a meal," Alfie argues, rubbing his palm along his thigh in a gesture he's not even aware he's doing.

"I have stew. Canned. Beef and vegetables and that. You're gonna eat it, and more bread, too."

Tommy tips his head back and sighs at the ceiling, then turns to face Alfie.

"Alright, if you insist," he agrees.

"Oh get off it, Tommy," Alfie huffs back, standing up and yes, he is rolling his eyes at Tommy and his dramatic sighing. Whether Tommy follows him back to the kitchen or not is his prerogative, but that's where he's heading.

"It's food, alright, not the fucking Revelation. You don't eat enough, I can tell. So you're here, I'm gonna feed you, and it's fuckin' delicious."

"I said I'd eat it," he replies.

"You this irritating with your family, too, eh?" Alfie asks, but again it has no actual heat to it and he picks up his cane along the way to the kitchen.

If he's going to be bent over the fire heating up stew, he's going to give his back a little rest after the romping they just did.

"It's charming, though. Gets you places, not talking much, doesn't it. That and those blue eyes."

"They would tell you I am," Tommy says with a shrug of one shoulder. 

"I just prefer to think before I speak," he states with a small frown. "What would you like me to talk about?"

"Something, anything, eh? I like hearing you talk," Alfie admits, because if this is going to be a thing between them he's going to be slightly more open than he ordinarily would be. They're both in positions of vulnerability, doing this, together. They both have blackmail on the other if one chose to make it public at the expense of the other. Their kind are capable of being discreet, though, so Alfie doesn't think it will come from Tommy if it does get out.

"Well," Tommy says, rubbing his thumb over his lip. "Do you have more interest in cars or horses?"

"Neither," Alfie admits truthfully, shuffling around in the pantry for the oldest can of stew he can find. It's probably going to be one of the more delicious things Tommy's had recently, if Alfie has anything to say about it.

"All I know is they both get you from one place to another and one shits in the street. Never ridden a horse, tell you the truth. Got a look in their eye I don't care for, so yeah. Horses, tell me about 'em. Go on."

“Mmm,” Tommy says, leaning a hip against the counter and watching Alfie as he rummages. 

“Horses are beautiful animals,” Tommy begins. “I’ve several in the stables at Warwickshire.”

"Mmn," Alfie grunts out, and he is actually listening but he's also shifting cans around without dropping them to find the exact one he wants. He sets it on the middle island once he's finally found it, then proceeds to put all the others back away again.

"You ride 'em yourself as well as bet on 'em, eh? Gypsy blood, right?"

“I take bets on them,” Tommy corrects. “But yes, riding is in the blood. We learn early in life. Horses... they’re freedom for the Romani. If you have a horse, you can pick up and go anywhere in a moment.”

"Right, right," Alfie waves that off, getting a fire lit in the kitchen so he can heat up the stew, because no one wants room temperature stew.

None of them actually put their bets in themselves, why would they? They take the bets, they fix the races, they make their money. But Alfie doesn't have his foot solidly into bookies, either. A lot of his income is from the bakery, but coincidentally those things sometimes go hand in hand. Namely thanks to Tommy Shelby.

"And that's what got you into bookmaking, your love of horses," Alfie surmises, the words coming out slow, as he glances up at Tommy. He certainly sounds genuinely interested. More in Tommy's personal connection with said horses, not the horses themselves.

“Yes, that’s why we started with bookmaking,” Tommy agrees with a small smile. “It was an easy vote.”

He gives Alfie a thoughtful look and says, “Horses listen to us. Gypsy charm.”

Alfie knows most of what all the Shelby Company Limited entails, and it's a fucking lot. You have to have your hands dipped in all sorts to make business successful these days, and Thomas Shelby is certainly a horse to bet on, if he were in the ring to run. There's a reason that Alfie has stuck by him, and also chosen to present himself as an actual sodomite to him as well, and that is his penchant for success.

And he takes risks. Big risks. And big risks, being a real fucking man, not knowing if your risk is going to pay off or fuck you over, those are sexy things to Alfie Solomons. Yeah, those are the kinds of things that get him good and hard. Make the blood flow through his veins, make him feel alive again.

"You do love things that listen to you, don't you Thomas," Alfie hums, grunting as he twists the sealed lid on the glass bottle of stew to open it. It pops loudly, and he hums again as he discards the lid to the side. "And how, exactly, do you woo these horses of yours with your Gypsy charm, eh? I genuinely want to know, yeah."

"All I do is talk to them, Alfie," Tommy says, watching the man as he opens the jar and moves to add another log to the fire himself to stoke it. "Treat them like people. Respect them and their fears. I listen to them. They listen back."

"Mmnh," Alfie hums again, nodding and letting his eyes go half mast for a moment in an almost blink. Then he lets his head fall to one side and he actually, honestly, smiles.

"Probably helps they don't share your secrets, eh?"

"Some, but I don't tell their secrets either," Tommy says. "It's a fair trade."

"Right," Alfie responds and draws the word out, letting his head fall back with a little chuckle, pulling his face and damn, has it been that long since he smiled? Those muscles don't even remember how to move, it feels like.

"Fuckin' Gypsy boy, lookit you. Charming horses with your pretty little secrets. Hand me that pot by your knee, get this show on the road, yeah? Tommy Fucking Shelby, Horse Whisperer."

Tommy shifts to pick up the pot that Alfie has pointed out and stands back up to hand it over the counter to him.

"It's all in the tone of voice, eh? Keep it smooth and gentle. They're like putty in your hands," he continues and he drops his voice a little lower.   
  
Alfie watches him hand over the pot and he takes it but doesn't take his eyes off Tommy's while he does it. They drop briefly to Tommy's lips in acknowledgment of the shift into a lower tone of voice, then come back up again.

"That what you wanna do to me, eh, Tommy? Turn me into putty in your hands just from the sound of your voice," he murmurs, and his own tone is lighter, more whimsical, not unlike when he asked if Tommy would like to go to Timbuktu.

Tommy keeps his eyes focused on Alfie's. 

"It wouldn't be only my voice," he replies, tipping his head to eye Alfie. "But it's a start, yeah?"

Whether he's up to something or not, his livelihood depends on selling that he actually is up to something every moment of every day. It keeps him on his toes, keeps him alive.

His gaze flicks between Tommy's eyes, focusing on one, then the other. Searching.

"Yeah... yeah, it is," he nods and finally blinks, breaking eye contact first and standing up straighter again. He clears his throat and gets to pouring the stew in the pot, choosing instead to stare at that and keep his focus on feeding them and not looking at Tommy.

Tommy hangs the poker back up but stays crouched to stare at the flames. 

Alfie moves over to the other side of the kitchen to retrieve a big spoon, then hangs the pot over the fire. He stirs the stew. Doesn't look at Tommy while he does it, not once. His face is screwed up in thought, his brow pulled down to shadow his eyes. The spoon is set on the counter.

"You have a nice voice, Thomas," he says after a long, long stretch of silence and it feels like admitting a deep dark secret more than anything else. He's staring at the stew. Very studiously. "You do. And you have pretty eyes. Beautiful, really. You feel nice, too. In my hands. All these... things..."

And where does that leave him, really? What is he offering Tommy, other than a good solid fuck? Or is that all Tommy really wants from him?

Tommy's silent as he watches the other man stir the stew. The only sound in the room is their quiet breathing and the stirring. 

Alfie knows he's said too much, now. He gave up his position, and Tommy knows. He's too smart to not know, and now... fuck.

"Never rode a horse in my fucking life," he damn near blurts it out, the sudden noise even startling him. But now that the floodgates are opened, he can't seem to make himself stop.

"Like I said earlier, yeah. Don't trust 'em. Don't know how to talk to them, I guess, probably because they're fuckin' animals, why would I talk to a fuckin' animal, it's not going to talk back, is it? No, it's going to snort at me, probably bite me, too, for cryin' out loud, so yeah, never trusted one enough to get on its fucking back and tell it to go this way or that way or -"

"See the thing about horses, Alfie," Tommy says, interrupting his rambling and he's talking to the window here. "Is they keep your secrets, right? They keep'em, yeah, because people tell their secrets in parts and they can't put it all together in the end."

Tommy turns away from the window, hands still in his pockets, to look at the man by the fireplace. "See, I figured this was only going to be a few fucks here and there. I took the ring off--" He pauses, but barely and continues, "I took the ring off because I didn't want to look weak with the whole lot of my family in jail. That's what I told myself. Easy to explain because it served a purpose. It was difficult. Still is, that's why I wanted it rough upstairs."

Tommy shakes his head, "But I didn't have the half of it until today, eh?" His eyes never leave Alfie and if the man looks his way, he'll meet his gaze, "Today you gave me the rest of the pieces. No sharing. Kisses. Gentle fucks... What is all this, Alfie? Between us?"

When Tommy finally decides to open his mouth and grace the world with his voice again, Alfie's mouth snaps shut. He listens, he does, and he's no coward with eye contact, so he's watching Tommy through every single moment that he's speaking. He chews on his bottom lip, jutting out his jaw and beard, then flattens them again the longer he listens.

There's a ringing silence between them when Tommy finishes. Alfie doesn't move until he does, opening his mouth as if he's going to say something important. Then he gestures at the fire and the pot and says, "Stew's ready. I'll get the bowls."

Tommy throws his hands up in exasperation and frustration. "I won't eat until we discuss this."

The look Alfie gives Tommy is one of very clear and open offense at such a rude statement being thrown between them. He puts down the bowls, probably a little louder than necessary.

"Fuck off, then."

He stares at Tommy, unblinking. His expression, as usual, is difficult to read.

"Go on," Alfie says, and he gestures with a tip of his head to the door. "If you want just a fuck, then leave. Fuckin' leave, you got what you wanted already."

Alfie holds his ground, staring down Tommy until he's physically out of the room. Only after that does he blink and back down, chewing almost angrily on the inside of his cheek as he prepares two bowls worth of stew. One for him, one for Tommy. He washes his hands. Breaks off a piece of bread from the pantry, then another one for Thomas. Puts it away.

Then he eats. He sits down in his chair, with his bread and his stew and some water, and he eats. If Tommy wants to leave, he can fucking leave, but he's not getting out of the house without seeing Alfie along the way.

"Fuck," Tommy mutters out loud. He exhales and stands up, heads back for the kitchen. He pauses in the doorway, seeing the bowl and the bread set for him and he moves to wash his own hands before sitting down across from Alfie.

Alfie doesn't look at him when he comes back in. He just pretends he's not even there and methodically shovels more stew in his mouth. Methodically chews. Swallows. Bites off some bread. Takes a drink of water, staring off at the windows into the darkness of the evening. There are train whistles in the distance. The dull roar of furnaces blazing and just the general buzz of life despite the waning hour.

"There's whiskey," he announces suddenly, still not looking at Tommy. "And there's rum. Don't keep much of it. In the pantry, down below, behind the flour. Pick one."

He clears his throat like he might say something and changes his mind. He starts eating.

Again, he clears his throat and he asks, "Do you have any tea?"

That... that does make Alfie look up, his jaw going still mid-chew. He stares at Tommy, searches his soul well enough that he starts to chew again, and then he nods with a hum of assent. Tommy is just as full of surprises, really, but if what is being said without physically saying it is true, then Alfie is pleased all the same.

"I do. Wissotzky. Got mint, peach, or green."

I'll take green," Tommy says.

A little variety would be nice if Alfie is going to be invited over to Tommy's home more often, yes. Tommy might not eat much, but Alfie does enjoy his food when he has the time for it. Keeps him strong, and with his ailments and age he needs as much of that as he can get.

"Alright," Alfie nods again and gets up to make Tommy his tea. With the fire already going it doesn't take long to heat up some water in a teapot. He shuffles around in his kitchen for a couple cups, one of which he sets in front of Tommy. They're not as extravagant as what Tommy's got in his castle of a house, but they hold tea and that's all that matters, really, isn't it. When the pot whistles, he puts the leaves in and stirs them. He's got sugar, too, otherwise it's a little bland, and then he sets that on the table too, and resettles in his chair with a grunt.

He gestures at the pot and says simply, "Tea."

"Thank you," Tommy says and he waits a few moments for the leaves to steep properly before he pours himself a cup. He adds a spoonful of sugar too and stirs, eyes on the cup.

"Mm," Alfie hums, and gets back to his stew and bread. He does pour himself his own little cup of tea, mixing in some sugar, too. It could feel weird, what they're doing right now, but Alfie doesn't seem to mind it at all and is taking it in stride, as well as one can, anyway.

"So," he says after a moment, drawing out the word, "We're good, then. Tommy. You chose tea, not rum. Not whiskey. You're eating the food. Right?"

Tommy takes a drink of his tea and looks up at Alfie when he addresses him. It had been a test just as he had suspected.

"We're good, Alfie," he agrees with a nod. "And it's fucking delicious, as promised."

Well, Alfie had betrayed him, he won't deny that. He'd done his deal with the Odd Fellows, and he gave Tommy all the time he needed to come to him if he desired to do so, which he did, eventually. Alfie didn't even really know for sure if Tommy would ever want that from him again, and he wasn't going to ask. If all Tommy wanted was a one night thing, sure. But for more than that there had to be conditions, which Alfie believes he laid out fairly clearly before they even fucked this evening.

"Wasn't joking when I said you say my name different," he says, and he has a little more light in his eye at the praise of his food even if he doesn't verbally acknowledge it. "Hell, barely anyone even calls me by my given name anymore."

"You were right before, eh?" he tells Alfie, though his eyes are on his spoon stirring his stew idly. "I do like hearing you call me sweetie."

"Yeh, it does. It does, don't it," Alfie sighs after a deep breath himself, and he finishes off his stew with a couple clinks of porcelain. He looks up when Tommy continues to speak even if Tommy isn't looking at him. His eyebrows raise curiously.

"...Yeh, you do, eh?" Alfie says, and his mouth twitches from the restraint it takes to keep from smiling. "Good, because that's my favorite one. It's gonna happen, so it's good you like it, innit."

"Seems that way," Tommy agrees and leans back in his chair now that he's finished eating. "I meant what I said earlier. I don't know if I'm ready for gentle, Alfie."

Having a gun pointed at you is a typical day in the life they lead. Alfie hasn't flinched from a gun being drawn on him since he was about, oh, six years old. The threat of death rarely even makes his heart speed up these days, but Tommy really makes him believe. Almost being shot that day over that deal was an honest surprise to him.

"That mean sharing space on the bed is off limits too, then? Go on, tell me your conditions, I gave you mine. What else. No gentle yet, got it. It's gonna happen, though, Thomas, it will, but I'll give you a bit to figure it out, yeah? So give me your list."

"Sharing space on the bed is good," Tommy says slowly. He takes a moment to think, looking beyond Alfie to the side and it should be obvious enough that's what he doing. 

Tommy adjusts himself in his seat but stays leaned back, clearing his throat, "Conditions, then. You've expressed interest in choking me." Tommy had noticed then. "I am amenable to the idea but I do require warning."

Oh, good. So cuddling is a thing that can happen, since Tommy didn't expressly deny it. It's different to lie with another man than it is with a woman, it is, so it might be awkward for them at first but Alfie rather likes his quiet time in the bed. Touching is good. Exploring one another.

"There's a story for that, I'm sure," Alfie comments, his eyes traveling and following the brush of Tommy's fingers over his own throat, but he doesn't sound remotely judgmental about it, "I'd like to hear it someday, but alright. Warning before choking. Anything else?"

"There is," Tommy admits and he doesn't offer any details. 

"You've already said no sharing and I've agreed. Works both ways," Tommy reiterates. "I enjoy you fucking me, Alfie. You're good at it. The large majority of the time I'll be satisfied and content. Nevertheless, at some point, I'm going to feel like putting my dick in something. Since we aren't sharing, I expect that will have to be you."

Yeah, there's no chance of Tommy ever thinking that Alfie Solomons and his dead wife are the same, right? No chance in hell. His hands are different, the lines of his body less curvy and more hard. The beard, also, is a pretty easy thing to not mix up with some woman in his head. Alfie never met Grace. Didn't have a desire to, and Tommy kept her pretty close to the chest, anyway, for good reason, considering her past life before Tommy. To Alfie, Grace is just a portrait on Tommy's wall in their mansion house, her eyes endlessly staring at nothing. So, at least in that sense different is easier.

Alfie's eyes get sharper as Tommy lays out his next condition and it's clear the other man has his undivided attention. He's stock still up until the word 'nevertheless', at which point he sits up straighter in his seat.

"Fuckin’ Lord, Tommy, way to ease a man into it," Alfie curses, and it's the first time that Alfie has looked openly uncomfortable as he shifts around in his chair, almost as if trying to imagine Tommy's cock in his ass and the fullness he'd feel from it. Eventually, though, he nods, albeit a little hesitantly.

"Right, yes. Works both ways," he agrees, clearing his throat.

"I won't ask often, Alfie," Tommy says. "We can work up to that as well, eh?"

Despite the assurance, Alfie can't help but make a face that very clearly broadcasts his discomfort, once again shifting in his seat. The open discomfort, if anything, is more honest and truthful than most of what they say or do in one another's presence, so it's clear that this talk of negotiation and compromise is getting Tommy places in the trust department. This is the business part of their personal deal with one another, so he's willing to meet somewhere near the middle for it even if it's pretty obvious he doesn't want to.

"Yeah, yeah, alright, fuckin' hell," Alfie shakes his head, clearly wanting to move on. "Anything else, Thomas?"

"No," Tommy shakes his head. "You know I drink and smoke already. You know what I do for a living. I think that about covers it."

"Right. Good. Well," he says, and with that he stands up, taking care of his dishes and putting them over by the basin to clear up tomorrow, "If that's it, then, I'm going to bed, yeah? You're welcome to join me, or not. Whatever you need to do, but my sciatica is flaring up something terrible, so. You're bedded, you're fed, I've done my part for the night."

"So you have," Tommy huffs and there's some amusement there. 

"I'll have a smoke and then I'll join you."

"Alright," Alfie nods, and he sounds pleased about that.

~

When Tommy comes back to the room, the fire is freshly stoked and he has his spectacles on while he reads the newspaper by lamplight, leaning against the headboard with a pillow at his back. He's marking it up and the sheets are up to his waist and he has a look of complete concentration on his face.

  
Tommy stands and just eyes Alfie for a moment. He doesn't watch him long before he strips off his shirt and his pants so that he's just in his underwear.

"How were the races?" he asks, bending over to collect the rest of his strewn about clothing and laying them flat with his jacket.  
  
"On schedule," Alfie responds, distracted as he continues marking it without looking up at Tommy. At least for a few seconds, then he glances up when the flash of movement catches his attention, mostly from all the pale skin suddenly exposed. He eyes Tommy with open appraisal while he's busy picking up clothes, his glasses making his eyes look slightly bigger through the magnification.

"How many times you been shot?"

Tommy rummages through his pockets for his glasses and puts them on the nightstand, then bends down to fish his pocket watch out from under the bed. He looks up over the edge of the bed at Alfie at the question and stands up.

"Twice," he says, raising a hand to the nasty looking scar on his shoulder. "This was in France." He points at a smaller scar a little lower on his chest. "And this was Billy Kimber."

Alfie chews on his lip as he stares, humming softly. The newspaper is deposited on his lap now that he finds Tommy more interesting. "Not far from your heart, mm."

"Looks that way," Tommy agrees, depositing his watch on the table by the bed with the rest of his small but growing collection of things and then he pulls back the cover on the empty side of the bed.

"They missed. I didn't."

Alfie watches him the entire time he moves from one side of the bed to the other, still chewing on his lip and he's acclimated to Tommy's presence without a problem. He looks entirely relaxed exactly where he is and with Tommy climbing into bed next to him. The spectacles are lifted off his nose to rest once more against his loose undershirt.

"Shot him right between the eyes, I heard. Kimber. Fuckin' mouth on him, wasn't there. Weak behind the eyes. Not before one of my men took a bullet for me," Tommy sighs heavily and slides into the bed, propping up the pillow on his side so he can sit up next to Alfie. He pulls the sheets up over himself which leaves his chest bare. 

"He knew the road," Alfie says, and he doesn't sound entirely dispassionate about it but, well, they've all seen a lot of death. Eventually it stops meaning quite as much.

"You took one of mine, too, remember. Mendel. Good strong lad, he was. That was Michael's first, wasn't it."

"I remember," Tommy agrees and he nods his head before dropping it back against the headboard. "And the priest was his second. That'd be what they arrested him on."

"Mm. Put a lot of trust in him, didn't ya, if he was your only back-up with me, eh? Knew I wouldn't come alone, but still you just brought him."

"Didn't have much choice, tell you the truth," Tommy admits. "He was on his way to the priest and I was on my way to dig a tunnel. Everyone else had their parts to play in the robbery."

That does make Alfie pause and get a good proper look at Tommy sideways.

"You went back in a tunnel. You. After France."

"I needed a tunnel," he says and his eyes stay forward.

Alfie stares at him for a good solid seven seconds. Alfie's not stupid. He can put the pieces together here. Tommy needed to dig in that tunnel because he was out of time. Because they had his boy, and they would obviously use his boy to their advantage. Push him to his limit, demand he get it done, or they'd kill his boy or worse.

So he got in that fucking tunnel. That thing, that thing Alfie’s sure - he knows it deep in his bones - that Tommy said he'd never, ever go back in.

And that... that's on Alfie. Undeniably. He squeezes his lips together and looks down at his lap.

"...Fuckin' hell," Alfie says, and he sounds miserable as he says it.

Tommy grunts his agreement. 

"It would have already been done but my tunnelers hit clay. Slowed them down," he shakes his head. "They had my boy, Alfie," Tommy continues. "That isn't on you. If I thought it was... well, you wouldn't be here to fuck."

It is on him, though, isn't it? He made the deal. Yeah, sure, the deal was for money, but it's not like he really had Tommy's best interests in mind enough to care about the minutia of what the Odd Fellows had on him and what lengths they'd go to keep Tommy in line. What's worse is that, quite honestly, Alfie doesn't know if it would have mattered if he did.

"Yeah... yeah, I know I wouldn't," he mutters, like he needs that reminder. He chews on the inside of his cheek and stares down at the sheets, wondering if he'll even be allowed to meet that boy after what almost happened because of him. If he should, even, because how can he separate business from pleasure, now, eh? The line is blurred, that stupid fucking line.

"Would have been a shame," tommy says, this time glancing sideways at Alfie and his tone is light. "I'd have missed out on the fucking delicious stew, eh?"

Alfie tips his head and catches Tommy's gaze and he huffs out a silent laugh that comes out sounding more like a cough than anything. He lifts his hand and gently nudges Tommy's chin with his forefinger and thumb, narrowing his eyes at him in that searching way he does that makes his eyebrows twitch.

"It is fucking delicious stew, ain't it," he hums, and his eyes go soft after that and he leans over and presses a barely-there kiss to Tommy's closest cheek. "You're something else, Thomas. You are."

"Fucking delicious," he repeats with a nod.

Tommy must surely know it by now. His eyes are fucking pretty. It certainly helps that the rest of him is equally pretty, too.

And that is one of the reasons why Alfie is going to kiss him now, although that's certainly not the only reason. It's a shockingly gentle kiss, probably more gentle than Tommy would like, but Alfie warned him that this might happen at some point, and he's not stopping him.

The moment that Alfie feels Tommy start to pull back he breaks it off himself. He hums, licks his lips, then retreats back into his own space and takes his glasses off from around his neck, setting them on the nightstand. He turns off the lamp on the nightstand as well, leaving only a lowly-lit fire in the hearth.

"Alright, night, then."

"Good night, Alfie," Tommy replies and he shifts down on the bed to lay the pillow flat.A debates for a moment before he rolls onto his side away from the man and pulls the sheet up.


End file.
